What I'm Walking Into
by nowforruin
Summary: For CS AU Week, Day 3: Beloved Tropes / Roommates / When David gets married and moves out, Emma needs a new roommate. Enter Killian Jones. Smuffy oneshot.


"I'm really going to miss you." Emma sighs, pulling the tape gun across the last of the cardboard boxes stuffed with David's clothes. She looks around his room, now cluttered with boxes instead of filled with his things, and tries to not feel quite so sad about it.

"I'm going to be two streets over. You know you can stop by at any time."

"Yeah, I'm not so sure Mary Margaret will appreciate you inviting people over to the newlywed house just yet." Emma winks over the boxes, not bothering to struggle out of David's impulsive embrace. She's gotten used to his affection over the years they've lived together, and she'll never admit it to him, but she'll miss this, too.

"She's going to be sick of me by the time we get back. I'm sure she won't mind." He pulls back, taking the box out of her hands and adding it to the towering stack by the door. "Besides, you know you're family, Emma. You're always welcome."

"I mean…you _are_ taking her camping." Emma pulls a face, shuddering at the thought and pulling her sweater tighter around her body. "Worst honeymoon ever."

"We _like_ camping and hiking."

" _You_ didn't live in your car for a few years and don't have the proper appreciation for a good bed." It's taken her a long time to be able to joke about it, and her words aren't bitter – they both laugh. She's grateful for David, especially in moments like this, because before he ended up as her roommate, it would have been a very different story.

Emma met David in college – well, while he was in college. She's been working at the all-night diner in town, Granny's, since she landed there after one too many run ins with sticky situations in Boston. It's like any of the other small Maine coastal towns (that isn't Falmouth or Old Orchard or Bar Harbor, towns people have heard of) but there's a college in the next town over, and it keeps business steady. Emma's life isn't glamorous, but it sure as hell beats living in her car.

The apartment was perfect when she found it. Between her and Neal, the rent would be tight, but they could make it work. One bedroom for them, and another for a nursery. They were young and in love and it wasn't Tallahassee, but it was a life Emma couldn't wait to live.

But like most things in her life, that plan blew up in her face. David overheard her telling Ruby one night at the diner she was going to lose the place if she couldn't find a roommate right away and told her if she didn't mind living with a guy, he needed a place. She was desperate enough to judge him purely on the offer and his farm-boy smile and said yes.

He moved in that weekend, bringing life and happiness into Emma's world that she didn't even know she badly needed. She's never been even remotely interested in him, but he's become family to her over the years. He's seen her crying, halfway through her second bottle of wine on the kitchen floor, and he brushed her hair when she got the flu so badly she could barely move her arms. He's the single best man she's ever known, but she carved out a place for him that was far from romantic and there he's stayed.

Besides, she loves Mary Margaret too much to have ever considered trying to come between them. He met her shortly after moving in with Emma, and it's been amazing watching them fall in love. Emma is in the wedding this weekend, and couldn't be more proud of David.

The fact that he's moving out just sort of sucks.

She's worried about paying rent, not that she's told David any of that. She still works at the diner, mostly. On occasion she picks up assignments from the bail bondsman down in Portland, but there aren't a lot of clients who go missing up here. It pays well, when she can get the work, but it's not something she can rely on. She should really just move to Portland – David moving out is the perfect reason to go – but she doesn't want to give up the life she's cobbled together here.

David and Mary Margaret bought a house a few streets over from her apartment, and they're moving in as soon as they're married. Emma rolled her eyes at the idea when David told her, that they were planning on waiting until they were married to live together, but secretly, Emma thinks it's romantic how old-fashioned they're being.

Not that they're _that_ old-fashioned. Of all the things she's going to miss about having David in the room next door, she _won't_ miss having Mary Margaret's voice carrying through the walls, or the awkward mornings following an especially _loud_ evening where she's sipped her coffee and pretended not to notice.

Of course, she's gotten David back for those nights. Emma may not be riding off into the sunset with her handsome prince, but she's not a nun either. Her "relationships" – if they can even be called that – have been light affairs of convenience and mutual understanding. Some have lasted longer than others. She's liked some of them, but never enough to actually invest herself in them.

The guy she's seeing right now, well, he might be different. She does like him, but she's not really sure how much longer she plans to keep seeing him. He knows David is moving out, and he likes her plenty – he's not so casually mentioned him moving in so she can keep the apartment. Emma isn't ready for that – not with Walsh, not with anybody. Whoever takes David's place, it's going to be a business arrangement. If it turns into friendship, that would be nice, but Emma isn't banking on another David.

"Have you heard a word I've said?"

"Sorry." Emma flushes, shaking herself out of her thoughts and turning her full attention to the man. "I just got lost in thought. I'm listening now."

"I'm going to head over to Mary Margaret's for a bit, help her pack up the last of her stuff that she won't need for the wedding. But I want to talk to you when I get back. I thought we could get a pizza?"

"Yeah, sounds good." She grabs his arm as he turns to leave, curious. "Everything okay? You've got your serious face on."

"Everything's good. Just wanted to catch you up on some stuff." He smiles, squeezing her arm back as she lets him go. "Cheese okay? I'll pick up some beer."

"Sounds good." Emma watches him go, following him into the living room. He's easy to see through the big bay window as he jogs down the sidewalk and hops into his truck, an old beater of a thing Emma wishes he would replace before it breaks down on the highway one of these days, but he's oddly attached to the old thing. It smells like worn leather and gasoline, and when he's been driving around in it all day, the scent clings to him.

Emma flops down on the couch with a sigh, turning on the TV, looking to get lost in another world for a little while. But flipping through the channels only brings her money worries back in full focus. The cable will have to go right away. She should probably just call and cancel it now, while she's thinking of it. It could take a month or more to find a roommate who isn't one of the local college kids; it was one thing when she was twenty-one to have a college student roommate – not so much now when she's going to be twenty-seven in the fall.

Might as well enjoy the pizza and beer tonight while she can. Takeout will probably have to go too, at least until she can find someone to split the cost of the bills around here with. Maybe she could ask Mary Margaret if she's got any friends looking for a place to stay, but it's hard to suppress a grimace. Mary Margaret is one thing, but most of her friends these days are her fellow grade school teachers. They're bubbly and sweet – and if Emma spends more than a few hours with them, she gets queasy from all the sugary goodness.

Maybe she should just move. Would it be that terrible to find a smaller place she could afford on her own? Living with David is one thing, but the thought of having a stranger move into her home, to have to get used to another person and their habits all over again…it's exhausting just to think about.

"Stop," she tells herself, hoping that saying the word out loud will help her mean it. She's got to stop worrying about all of this – she has a wedding to get through and she owes it to David to be fully present. The rent is paid through the end of the month, so she's got a few weeks yet to deal with this. First, she's going to be happy and celebrate this marriage, and she's going to help David and Mary Margaret move into their house. She's going to be happy for a few days before the walls start closing in on her.

Besides, eviction takes time. She's got at least two months before it's back to living in her car, worst-case scenario.

She's still trying to convince herself of it when David walks back in a few hours later, pizza carefully balanced on one hand and a six pack in the other. He gives her a dubious look when he sees what's on the TV – some horrible chick flick she's not even paying attention to – as he sets the food and drink down. "Since when do you watch this stuff?"

"I wasn't really watching it," she admits, reaching for the remote and tossing it to him. "You know these aren't my thing at all. It's all so fake. Girl meets guy, girl's whole life changes, happily after it. It's not real." She pauses, tilting her head and giving him a suspicious once over. "Except of course in your case. Maybe you're an alien."

"One day, you're going to meet someone, and when that day comes, I'm going to remind you of this conversation." David clicks the TV off, setting the remote on the coffee table and opening the pizza to hand her a slice. It's hot and greasy and she's making a mess, but Emma happily bites into the cheesy goodness anyway.

"My one true love is pizza, you know that. Mmm." Emma winks at him over her pizza slice, licking her fingers clean of sauce. "So what's up? You got the good beer so you must be worried."

He chuckles, reaching for a bottle and handing it to her after popping off the top with the opener on his keychain. He takes a sip from his own before turning to her, his expression tentative. "So, I know you're worried about me moving out and money and…"

"I'll be fine. You don't have to worry about me," she cuts in, not liking the direction of the conversation already. She knows the house he bought with Mary Margaret is huge, and there's plenty of room for her there – but she doesn't _want_ to live in his house. And she won't take a handout.

"Emma, this is me. I know you're worried." She makes a noise of discontent but doesn't argue with him anymore, just sips at her beer. He'll get to his point faster if she stops arguing with him, and then she can explain to him all the ways in which he's wrong and she'll be fine.

"I know you don't want to give this place up. I think I have a solution for you. A friend of mine is moving back to town and needs a place to stay. I think you guys would get along."

Emma's eyes narrow suspiciously as she takes another deep sip from her beer. "How have I never met this friend before?"

"He's someone I knew in high school. His dad was a fisherman and he's been working on boats since we graduated." David frowns, a flicker of unhappiness marring his features before he turns back to Emma. "There was an accident on the boat. He messed up his hand and he says he can't do it anymore. I told him I liked living up here, so he decided to come up for the wedding and just stay."

"And you want him to move into your room." Emma watches David carefully, watching for any sign of doubt or a clue as to what this guy might be like.

"I thought it would be good for both of you. He's got a girlfriend, so nothing for Walsh to worry about. He can be a little…rough about the edges, but he's a good guy."

"First of all, Walsh doesn't really get a say. We're not…he doesn't get a say." Emma tilts her beer bottle back, swallowing the last of it and reaching for another pizza slice. "But I do. When's the last time you saw this guy? Are you sure…is he reliable?"

"I haven't seen him in a few years," David admits, picking at the label on his beer bottle instead of looking at her, which is never a good sign. "But he moved here in high school from England with his family, and we were close growing up. We've kept in touch. He was out to sea a lot, so it's not like we could just go grab a drink, you know? And when he's back, the last thing he wants to do is drive all the way up here. It just hasn't worked out."

Emma sighs, shoving a bite of pizza in her mouth to give herself time to think while she chews. Any friend of David's has to be a decent person, and his definition of _rough around the edges_ isn't exactly the same as hers, so she doubts this guy is anything to worry about. Besides, if he doesn't work out, she can always go back to her original plan.

"Okay," she finally agrees, hoping she isn't going to regret her decision. "He can move in."

"Great. He'll be here tomorrow. I told him he could crash on the couch until the wedding." David grins at Emma's glare, dodging the pillow she throws at him easily.

"You already told him he could move in, didn't you?" she accuses, getting up to fetch the pillow from the floor before someone – likely Emma herself – trips over it later.

"If you had said no I would have told him it didn't work out. He could have stayed with me and Mary Margaret. I had a plan," he says in his defense, holding his hands up as she stalks back to the couch with the pillow in hand.

"Sure you did." She swats him over the head with the pillow before curling back into the couch corner with a fresh bottle of beer. "If he's awful, I'm sending him to your house."

"Deal." They click their beer bottles together to seal it, and Emma leans back against the arm of the couch, crossing her ankles neatly as her feet fall in David's lap.

"Thanks." She's quiet and it's begrudgingly said, but David knows her, knows that Emma doesn't like to accept help from anyone, and especially not when she needs it the most. She's proud and she's stubborn, but he cares about her, and he knows she's been worried.

He also knows she doesn't want to talk about it anymore, so he flips on the TV, turns it to whatever baseball game is playing, and spends the next two hours talking trash and drinking beer with her until she falls asleep on the couch.

-x-

It's the small hours of the morning by the time Emma arrives home days later, the whirlwind of the wedding come and gone in a flurry of champagne and laughter. The apartment is dark when she enters, and she breathes a sigh of relief at the silence. Killian must already be asleep, which means whatever awkward dance they're going to do around each other while they get used to living together can wait another day. Their brief introduction at the wedding the other night was the only time she's seen him, and from how that went, she doesn't mind putting off further introductions.

The smell the grease from the diner clings to her hair, and Emma frowns as she wanders into the kitchen in search of a snack that isn't deep-fried. You would think she would be used to it by now after so many years, but she still hates the way the stench clings to her hair, her skin, her clothes. She won't let Walsh touch her until she's had a shower after her shift, not that it seems to matter much to him.

An increasing number of Emma's preferences don't seem to matter to him.

The refrigerator is in a sad state, and Emma sighs, fishing out the sole remaining apple and munching on it as she walks back to her room. David did most of the grocery shopping, having recognized early on that Emma would survive on crackers and cheese left to her own devices. He'd teased her about eating like a five year old until she'd finally confessed that it's just how she learned to eat growing up – be faster than the others, or go hungry. It wasn't like any of the places she stayed were shopping at Whole Foods.

One more adjustment she'll have to make as she gets used to living with someone else.

She finishes the apple while the water heats for a shower, and it's pure relief to stand under the spray. She can't wait to sit down, her feet aching from a night in those heels followed by a shift on her feet. It's tempting to simply collapse in the tub and let the water run over her, but she's pretty sure if she sits down now, she won't get back up.

The crash comes from the living room as she's wrapping herself in a towel, followed by a string of curses. Emma takes a deep breath, fighting against a frustrated exhaustion that makes her want to scream. Apparently her desire to avoid Killian for one more night would go unheeded.

She debates ignoring the noise, but on the off chance he's hurt himself – or the furniture David was kind enough to leave her – she goes to investigate, not bothering to dress. No sense in being modest – they're living together. He'll see her in the towel one day or another, so might as well just get it over with now.

Flipping on the light, it's a battle between gaping and laughing. When she saw him at David's wedding, he was GQ beautiful in his vest and dress slacks. Tonight, he's wearing leather pants, a vest without a shirt under it that looks like some sort of couch upholstery and, unless she's very much mistaken, guy liner.

He's also leaned heavily against the wall, clutching his side and muttering darkly.

"Maybe if you turned on the light, you wouldn't walk into walls," she tells him, clutching her towel more tightly around her. The getup is amusing in many ways, but there's something about the flex of lean muscle in his arms and the way the vest highlights his narrow waist that makes her skin tingle.

"I couldn't find the bloody switch," he snaps back, raising his eyes to glare at her. And damn him if the smudge of makeup doesn't just make his eyes even bluer.

"What's with the outfit?" she can't help but ask, noticing the heavy leather boots that go along with the rest of it. Hadn't David said he was a fisherman? How did he go from that, to the suit at the wedding to… _this_?

"Have you never been to the Rabbit Hole on the college campus? It's the bloody uniform." He pauses, a hint of the leering grin she recalls from the wedding on his lips, his own amusement beginning to shine through now that the lights are on and the furniture isn't attacking him. "Though I might ask you the same thing."

"I just got home from work and took a shower. We live together. Get used to it." She aims for matter of fact, but it comes off defensive.

"So it appears we'll be on a similar schedule."

"Maybe. My shifts are all over the place. I usually work Sunday morning but switched shifts for the wedding." She doesn't know why she's telling him all this, because he doesn't need to know. "Anyway, I send the rent in on the first. I know we have until the tenth but I don't want to be late. David and I split the rest of the bills down the middle, so I'm hoping he filled you in on that."

"Aye."

"I'm awful at grocery shopping, but I try to at least stick by the 'use the last of something and replace it' rule. David and I just shared, but we can buy our own groceries if you rather." She really didn't intend to have this conversation in the middle of the night standing in the living room in her towel, wet hair dripping everywhere, but now that she's started, she can't seem to stop herself from rambling on about the apartment.

"Sharing suits me fine," he says, and the words make sense, but the way his eyes are lingering on her bare legs while he says it make her wonder just what it is he thinks he's sharing – if it's her bed, he's sorely mistaken. But then his eyes return to hers, and the smile is genuine. "It will be nice to have a stove which doesn't move about."

"Great. And if you could just give me a head's up about overnight guests, that'd be good. Obviously, you live here too, and you can have over whoever you want. I'd just like to know what I'm walking into."

"All right." His expression shifts again, the smile curving into a smirk as his eyes fill with a challenge. "Have many overnight guests yourself, love? I'd just like to know what I'm walking into."

She ignores the jab, rolling her eyes. "You met Walsh at the wedding. He's usually here one or two nights."

"Ah, yes, the jealous one."

"You propositioned me right in front of him," Emma snaps back, recalling their introduction with a faint blush. She'd simply asked where his girlfriend was, only to find out there wasn't a girlfriend – _Afraid you were informed incorrectly, love. I'm quite available_. He'd taken the information as permission to comment on her dress – _Do feel free to wear that dress around the apartment whenever you like. You look most ravishing._ And it wouldn't have been anything more than eye-roll inducing if not for Walsh hearing the whole thing.

Killian shrugs, folding his arms over his chest, completely unrepentant. The movement draws her attention, and it's only then she notices he's missing two of the fingers on his left hand. The flesh that remains is heavily scarred, and fresh by the look of it. He notices her stare, swallowing whatever retort was on the tip of his tongue and shoving his hand in his pocket. "It's been a long day, Swan. If you're through with the shower, I'd like to have a turn."

"All yours."

He nods, slipping past her. He's silent on his feet, graceful, and Emma catches herself wondering what it would be like to watch him on the sea, the way he must sway so easily with the tide.

It makes her ache, the way her unthinking stare clearly put out the light in his eyes. He's going to take some getting used to, this Killian Jones that David has put in her path, but she recognizes the haunted expression, the mask of indifference. She hates that she caused it, the way his expression shut down almost instantly, and tells herself she's going to have to do better. David told her there was a nasty accident on the fishing boat he worked on, and that it cost him his career. Obviously he would be sensitive about it still.

Shaking herself out of her thoughts, Emma returns to her bedroom. She goes through her nightly routine, smoothing lotion over her skin, combing her hair and pulling on pajamas. It's chilly with her wet hair and the air-conditioning running, but it's a nice change from constantly feeling her shirt cling to her sweaty skin at the diner.

The water shuts off as she crawls into bed, the creak of the bathroom door accompanying a new tread on the floorboards. David's step was heavy, like he was always about to march off somewhere. Killian is lighter on his feet, like he could move silently if he so chose.

As the weeks slip by, she finds his step is one of the very many differences between the two men. David is cheerful, especially when he returns from his honeymoon; Killian isn't exactly unhappy, but there's something about his smiles that turns sad by the time they reach his eyes. David drank scotch when he was worried or had had a particularly bad day; Killian drinks rum like it's water.

It's also taken some getting used to having Killian awake when she comes home in the middle of the night. David's job with the Sheriff's office kept his hours mostly regular, with an occasional call in the middle of the night. But Killian's hours are worse than hers – she's passed him just getting home on her way out to a five a.m. start.

Of course, last call in Maine is at 1 a.m., so what he's doing stumbling back in with the dawn isn't hard to figure out. But who is she to judge? Her relationship with Walsh, such as it is, isn't exactly a storybook romance filled with romantic dinners and a love story for the ages. Killian has the decency not to bring a string of random women home with him, so other than the occasional raised eyebrow, she says nothing.

He's a walking contradiction, and as the weeks slip into months, Emma can't help but wonder more and more about him, his life, his story. David doesn't say much, and she doesn't ask – it seems like an invasion of his privacy to ask David for information Killian doesn't volunteer.

Living with the man isn't so bad, despite his secrets. They're not close like she was with David, and that's okay. Most roommates aren't. He cleans up after himself, he buys more milk when he drinks the last of it, and if he cooks, he makes enough for her, too. They complain about their respective customers when they have a rare night off together, and he instinctively seem to know when she just needs quiet. She's grown comfortable enough around him that it doesn't phase her the afternoons they're both running late for work, and she's standing next to him in nothing but a towel brushing her teeth – even when his eyes linger and he flirts shamelessly.

But the way he hits on her is so over the top, he can't possibly have any other motive than teasing her. At first, it only irritated her, but she's slowly learned his game and started firing back. He makes a fine picture himself, often wandering around the apartment in a pair of loose lounge pants that hang indecently low on his hips and nothing else.

Emma does a little staring of her own some days, like when he's fresh from the shower, hair messy and damp, smelling of soap and skin, tattoos on display. She'll ask him, one day, the meaning behind the ink, but for now, she simply admires the way the art curves up along his ribs, the shell slowly spiraling into birds in flight reaching up over his left shoulder. It's masterfully done, the shell melting into the birds. There's other, smaller pieces, some obvious – a knotted bit of rope she assumes has something to do with his time at sea – and some harder to decipher – a flowery bit of script high on his ribs, usually hidden by his right arm.

She chooses not to ask. He'll tell her when he wants to, if ever.

But she gets more answers than she bargained for on a hot August night, the windows open since the air-conditioning decided to commit suicide. David and Killian are sitting on their small back porch when she gets home, and there's something about the intensity of their conversation that makes her leave them be. It's late, and she's honestly surprised David is still there, but it's just another reason to take her shower and go to bed.

Their voices carry through the windows, either unaware she's home or unaware she can hear them. She really should make herself known, but she hasn't exactly hidden her presence, turning on the lights as she's moved through the apartment.

"You never did tell me what happened with Milah." Emma knows that tone from David, the gentle coaxing he's done to dig out a painful splinter lodged somewhere deep. David has always believed talking about problems keeps them from festering, and he's dragged more than a few secrets out of Emma with that tone.

"Aye, mate. Let's keep it that way. No good will come of that tale." Killian's reply is filled with bitterness, and she hears another beer top being popped, then a long pause. "She's gone."

"Look, man, I know how you operate, but you really should talk to someone. If not me, what about Emma?"

"Emma is the last person who needs the burden of my troubles." It's a sharp reply, and it's hard not to be offended, but then again, she shouldn't be listening.

"She's a good person, Killian, and a good friend. I know she can be hard sometimes, but she's just been through a lot. She might surprise you. I think she would understand more than you think. You two have a lot in common."

"That's the rub. She's a lovely woman. I can't involve her in any of this." Regret is heavy in his voice, and Emma frowns at the statement. Does he think she wouldn't listen, that she would judge him? They obviously don't know each other _that_ well, but he's lived with her for almost two months. Surely he has to know she's not the sort of person to dismiss him over a difficult past.

"Involve her? How are you involving her if it's over?"

"Milah left after the accident. She said I was a bloody cripple and went back to her husband."

Emma can't see his face, but the words are spit out with such anguish and bitterness, and her eyes slide shut in sympathy. Whoever this woman was, she obviously meant a great deal to him. The fact that she was married is a problem for another time –Killian is apparently the sort of man who gets involved with someone else's wife – but it's clear this is the source of that haunted look in his eyes. Married or not, to be left over the accident that cost him his career is a terrible blow.

She isn't a touchy feely person, but she wishes he had told her, wishes they knew she was here, because all she wants to do is wrap him in her arms and assure him he is _far_ from a cripple. He's missing a few fingers, that much is true, and the scars on his hand are obvious, but she's spent enough time with him to know he's fully capable.

"I'm sorry, man." David's words float up through her window, and the men descend into silence. She can imagine them, Killian brooding over the past, David not wanting to make things worse and staying silent.

The last thing she remembers thinking before she falls asleep is how glad she is that Walsh isn't there to hear any of it.

Walsh has been different since the wedding, and Emma isn't entirely sure she likes it. She's always been clear with him that she's not good at relationships, that she doesn't like titles or commitments. What they have going is a good thing, and she's loathe to ruin it by trying to shove it into a box. He was fine with it – or seemed to be – until Killian came along.

Now…now Walsh gets possessive, especially when Killian is around. She's been perfectly content sitting on the couch with him, his arm around her shoulder while they watch a movie – until Killian comes home. It always starts slowly, Walsh's thumb rubbing her shoulder, but if Killian doesn't disappear directly into his bedroom, Walsh becomes more and more obvious about staking his claim.

At first, she wasn't sure if he even realized he was doing it, or if it was some weird guy thing. She tried to give him some leeway – she did have a guy she'd never met move into the apartment without warning him. But lately, it's beginning to feel a whole lot like Walsh is marking his territory and Emma isn't so sure she likes it.

The tension between them simmers along in the summer heat, but Emma knows it's going to boil over soon. She should say something, reassure him, have a conversation, but she doesn't. It might be because she's never been completely invested in the relationship, or if might be because she doesn't much appreciate being treated like a possession.

Or it might be because when Killian sits in the backyard and says she's lovely, in that thoughtful, serious voice of his, it does more for her than anything Walsh ever has.

-x-

The crash of thunder wakes her in the small hours of the morning, dawn still a ways off. Walsh is asleep beside her, dead to the world as usual. She's always envied his ability to sleep through anything, but tonight she finds she's cranky and tired and hot, in spite of the fixed air-conditioning, courtesy of Killian and his day off.

Sliding out of bed, she pulls on Walsh's discarded T-shirt and pads into the kitchen, the cool tile under her feet soothing. She's half-asleep and doesn't bother turning on a light, so she doesn't see his shadow at first. A flash of lightning fills the apartment, and she has to fight not to gasp in surprise.

"Apologies, lass," he mumbles, sliding out of her way when he sees her reaching for a glass. "I wasn't aware you were awake."

"The storm woke me up." She fills her glass with icy water from the tap, leaning back against the counter as she sips at it. He's got the bottle of rum in his good hand, and by the hazy look in his eyes, he's been at it for awhile. "Why are you up this late? You weren't working tonight I thought."

He chuckles, a dark, bitter noise before he answers. "The demons of the past care not for the hours of the clock, love."

It's the same heartbreaking tone she remembers from his backyard conversation with David, and she hesitates for only a moment before stepping closer, laying her hand on his shoulder and squeezing lightly. His skin is warm in spite of the cool kitchen, and he seems surprised by her touch.

"I…I heard you talking to David that night, outside. About…Milah," she confesses, unable to hold in the secret any longer. Not tonight, in the dark kitchen with the storm raging outside, and his pain so clearly tormenting him. "I…I had…someone walked out on me, too, at the worst possible moment."

"He must have been a bloody fool." He's so serious when he says it, the flash of lightning turning his eyes an icy blue. There's no hint of his usual innuendo, no sign he's making a joke. He takes another sip from the bottle of rum, picking at the label with his thumb.

"So was she," Emma replies without thinking. She sets her water glass down, gently takes the rum out of his hands and steps closer. He watches, curious more than anything, but all she does is fold her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his chest.

"What…what are you doing, Swan?" His hand touches her back, tentative at first, his left arm stiff at his side.

"Yes, Emma, just what the hell _are_ you doing?" Walsh asks from behind them, the flash of lightning revealing his narrowed gaze right before he flips on the light.

Emma blinks in the sudden brightness, stepping away from Killian. The light reveals the full extent of Walsh's anger, his jaw tight and his color high. His glare is murderous, and it's directed squarely at Killian.

"I thought you were asleep," is the best she can come up with, reaching for her glass of water for something to do with her hands.

"That's what your explanation is for me finding you half-naked wrapped up with _him_?"

"I'm hardly naked. We _live together_ , Walsh. He's seen me in less." The second it's out of her mouth, Emma wishes she could shove the words back in, but it's too late.

Walsh's fury explodes out of him in a torrent of viciousness she wouldn't have thought him capable of. "You're un-fucking-believable. You've been screwing him this whole time, haven't you? That's why you didn't want me to move in, isn't it – you wanted this guy? Fine, Emma. You're just a dumb bitch who's never going to amount to anything, anyway. You deserve to be with some low life like him."

Emma is too stunned to say anything in response as he stomps down to her bedroom, gathering his things and reemerging seconds later. "Keep the god damn shirt. I don't want it back. I don't ever want to see you again." The door slams behind him, and it's suddenly very quiet in the apartment, the sound of the rain on the roof the only noise other than her breathing.

"So that happened." She turns back to Killian with a weak smile, her cheeks flushed. She's not sure if she's embarrassed by Walsh's accusations or the scene he's just made, but either way, she wishes the kitchen floor would open her up and swallow her.

"You should know it's only my respect for you that kept me from punching the bastard." There's a cold fury in the words, a carefully controlled menace that speaks to a temper held on a very short leash. It surprises her to look up into his eyes and see his concern and rage all twisted up together. "You didn't deserve that, Emma. I apologize for whatever part I played in it."

"You don't have to apologize. I've told him over and over there's nothing going on with us. And if he really doesn't trust me, then I don't want to be with him." She shrugs, but her eyes fall on the bottle of rum. She picks it up, slowly turning the bottle in her hands and watching the amber liquid roll around inside the glass before bringing it to her lips and taking a swallow.

"Will you be all right?"

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, returning the bottle to the counter with a wince. It's strong, and it burns all the way down. "Yeah," she says quietly, turning to cross the living room and lock the door behind Walsh. She leans back against the door for a moment, but then she's moving again, back toward her bedroom. All she wants to do is take off his shirt, change her sheets and go back to sleep.

Killian follows her, watches from the doorway as she begins to strip the bed, methodically pulling back blankets and sheets. "Would you like some help, lass?"

"No."

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah." She stops for a moment, a pile of sheets at her feet and a pillow in her hands. "I wasn't in love with him. It's not…it wasn't…" She yanks the pillow out of its case, tossing it back on the bed before bending to gather up the sheets. "I'm okay." She smiles what she hopes is a reassuring smile at him as she passes on her way to the small laundry closet off the kitchen.

He doesn't follow, and she's grateful for the moment of solitude. It's easy to zone out on the rush of the water from the machine, the methodical process of pouring detergent into a cup and rinsing it out, stuffing the sheets into the washer. She turns off the alarm for the end of the cycle, hoping to be asleep by the time it's done. The sheets can dry in the morning.

She's surprised to find Killian in her bedroom, smoothing her comforter back into place. "I didn't see any extra sheets in your closet so I fetched you some of mine. I hope that's all right."

"I only have the one set. I was just going to sleep without them for tonight."

"Now you won't have to." He sighs, running his hand over her pillow before turning to leave. "I am truly sorry for whatever sorrow I've brought you. It was never my intent."

"Killian." She stops him, her hand on his forearm as he passes. "This is not your fault. I need you to understand that. Things with me and Walsh…" She shrugs, not quite sure how to describe what the last six months or so have been like. "Like I said, I wasn't in love with him. I think…I think he was just waiting for an excuse. I gave him one."

"The man is a bloody fool." He shakes his head, bringing his hand up to cover hers where it still rests lightly on his arm. "He made his own excuses, love. You are stunning, and kind, and any man would be lucky to have you." His lips brush against her forehead before she knows what's happening, and then he's backing away with a sad smile. "Get some sleep, Swan."

She sleeps better than she has in months, and wakes with the taste of the ocean on her tongue.

-x-

Killian stops flirting with her.

At first, Emma wonders if it's a consequence of the night Walsh stormed out. Things were intense between them in the kitchen even before Walsh's outburst, and Killian witnessing the end of her relationship was a tad awkward. She was willing to chalk up his distance to that the first morning.

But after two weeks of polite distance, she's had enough.

"What's wrong?" she demands when he starts into the bathroom, sleepily rubbing at his eyes, only to turn around as soon as he spots her in a towel with toothbrush in hand. Her hair hangs in damp strands over her shoulders, but the towel is knotted securely, and any other time he would leer playfully before grabbing his own toothbrush.

"Nothing's amiss. I've just…"

"What? Realized you left your toothbrush somewhere else?" Emma rolls her eyes, gesturing to the item in question in its place on the vanity. "Just brush your teeth. And then tell me what the problem is."

"No problem." He sighs, shifting his weight and pushing his hand through his hair before taking a step closer and reaching for the toothbrush.

She makes a dissatisfied noise, resuming her morning routine, but she can't help the constant glances out of the corner of her eye. He looks terrible, dark circles under his eyes, a pallor to his skin, and he's all stiff shoulders and drawn brows.

They stand at the sink in silence, and unlike before, this silence is heavy with awkwardness. She's too aware of him, too aware of the scent of his skin and the tattoos reflected back in the mirror.

He catches her gaze in the glass, then bends swiftly to rinse out his mouth. "I intend to do the shopping this morning. Do you require anything?" His eyes avoid hers, the question formal and polite.

"I don't have to work until tonight. Why don't I go with you?" Emma offers, wiping her own mouth and setting her toothbrush back in its place. She's not quite sure why she offers, with how strained things are between them, but once the words are out, she won't take them back.

"Aye, if you wish." It's more of a mumble than anything, and he's backing out of the bathroom before she can reply. "I'll be ready to depart in ten minutes."

And she should let him go, but it's as though she's tethered to him as she follows him into the hallway. "Seriously, what's wrong?"

He stops, his back to her, every muscle tensing at the sound of her voice. "Why would something be wrong?" he asks, but he doesn't face her, and tension lives in the words.

"You won't even look at me, for one."

He turns slowly, as though the movement pains him, and when their eyes meet, she's surprised by the pain swimming in his. "See, love? All's well."

"You're not yourself."

He shrugs, scratching behind his ear and fixing his gaze on the wall over her shoulder. "Bit tired, I suppose."

"You're lying."

"Swan, I…"

He starts to ramble, more about being tired, not sleeping well, and perhaps he's been a bit distant. Emma barely hears him, instead watching the way a flush creeps over him and his eyes avoid hers, and maybe she's lost her mind completely, but the dots are starting to connect and more than anything she remembers that tender kiss in her bedroom the night Walsh walked out on her.

"You're different around me," she says when he finally stops talking, taking a step closer. "Like you don't even want to look at me."

He laughs, licking his bottom lip as embers flare to life in his gaze. "Trust me, love, I want to look at you."

"So why don't you?"

He sighs, but he doesn't step back as she moves closer. "I'm not…sod it, Emma, I'm not good enough for you. I ruined your relationship, and even if I didn't care for the bloke, you did and…" His eyes slip closed, nostrils flaring as he breathes deeply. "It's best if I keep my distance."

"You said any man would be lucky to have me. Does that include you?" Emma doesn't know what's come over her, but she hates the pain in his voice, and she hates the implication that he's not good enough for her.

"I…" He laughs, a nervous sound, but his tongue slips along his bottom lip as she draws closer still. "Dave will kill me if I touch you," he finally says, his hand hovering over her shoulder, as though he wants to touch her but is afraid to. "He's promised, you see."

"Is that why you're being weird?" Ever so slowly, he nods. "But you weren't before, when I was with Walsh." He nods again, and understanding floods through her. "Because you knew that with Walsh around, I wouldn't think you were serious." Another nod. "Did David make his ridiculous threats before or after things ended with Walsh?"

"Before," he admits, his eyes darting to her mouth before meeting hers. And just like that, everything falls into place – his flirting, him making her bed that night, that damn kiss on her forehead, and his careful tiptoeing around her the last two weeks.

Emma smiles, bringing her arms up to loop around his neck and pushing up onto her toes. "Guess it's a good thing he didn't say anything about me touching you, then." He breathes in sharply in surprise, but then he closes the distance between them, his arms circling her as she stretches to meet him.

The first brush of their lips is tentative, testing, as though neither of them is quite sure it's real. But then his tongue touches hers, and the kiss takes on a life of its own, demanding and desperate. Emma's missed him these last two weeks in a way she didn't know she could, missed the easiness of his flirtation, missed the sound of his laughter, but as he groans against her, she thinks she may like that sound even better.

His hand drops to her hip, and they're pressed too tightly together for the towel to fall, but it's not that long, and as his fingers roam, he finds the bare skin of her thigh where the fabric ends. The kiss breaks and he presses into her neck, breathing harsh as he squeezes her leg. "Bloody hell, Emma, do you truly…?"

She hears it then, the doubt, the pain, and she remembers his conversation with David, that the last woman he cared for left him over his injury, an emotional scar that ran deeper than the physical ones. And she _hates_ it, just as she hated it then.

So she lets her towel drop to the floor in the middle of the hallway.

"Yes," she says firmly as he stares at her in shock, a smile playing at her lips as his glance darts down to her bare breasts, and lower still. "Do you?"

"From the moment I saw you in that bloody red dress," he replies roughly, his callused palm sliding around her waist and tugging her against him. "Though this is a rather good look for you as well."

Whatever reply she might have made is lost in the kiss he presses to her lips, and the words are drowned by their desires. Her bedroom is closer, and they tumble down on the bed within minutes, Emma shoving impatiently at his pants until he's as bare to her as she is to him.

And maybe they should take it slower, enjoy it more – a part of Emma has wanted to kiss the tiny flock of birds strewn across his shoulder one by one since the first time she saw them – but it's as though everything they've held back from each other, from themselves, has torn loose from its moorings.

His curse is breathless as he touches her, her gasp meeting his as she tilts her hips to gain more friction. His forehead falls to her shoulder, the almost idle pattern he traces between her legs never quite reaching right where she wants him, her body already wound tightly. "More," she pleads, arching into him and pressing against his arousal, heavy on her hip. He groans in response, but slips two fingers inside her, his thumb settling right _there_ as light explodes behind her eyes with two hard thrusts of his hand.

He strokes her through it, and when she manages to open her eyes, he's watching her, desire and pride mingling into a dark promise of sin to come. And when he withdraws his hand and licks his fingers clean, tension starts to coil in her spine all over again.

Pleasure and pain dance together when he enters her, her body still exquisitely sensitive, but by the time he breaks their kiss to breathe, she's right back where she started. They're too impatient for finesse, but with every thrust forward, he tilts his hips just so, and she arches to meet him, again and again.

And when they collapse into a pile of limbs, Emma can't help but grin, her fingers tangled in his damp hair as she gently runs her nails over his scalp. "I think that was more than ten minutes."

"Sod the groceries," he mumbles into her shoulder, breathing heavily still as he shifts his weight onto his side to avoid crushing her. "And that was definitely more than ten minutes."

She laughs at his indignation, curling into his side and wondering why the hell it had taken her so long to realize just how good Killian was for her.

-x-

"Still think I'm an alien?"

Emma glances up in the mirror, spotting David in the doorway. His smile is proud as he takes in her appearance, the delicate braids and flowing white dress. He doesn't look so bad himself in the charcoal suit and blue tie, a match for the tiny sapphire studs in her ears.

"What does me getting married have to do with how strange you are?" she jokes, turning her attention back to fussing over her dress. She isn't nervous, exactly. Killian is everything she could have ever asked for, and they've already been living together for years. The wedding isn't going to change all that much between them in some respects – a new ring, a new last name, and a legal obligation to stick around aren't things she necessarily needed to know he loves her, but they certainly don't hurt.

"I promised to remind you of a conversation one day. I seem to recall you telling me girl meets guy and lives happily ever after didn't really exist."

It takes her a minute to recall the memory, her certainty David's happiness days before he married was never going to be something she experienced for herself. "I might have been wrong," she admits, her engagement ring sparkling in the sun and drawing up the memory of a sailboat and sunset with it. It's been an unexpected surprise to discover just how romantic Killian Jones can be, something she never imagined with all his innuendos and intense gazes. "Though you were too," she tacks on with a grin, turning away from the mirror to face her friend.

"Oh?"

"You threatened him if he touched me."

David laughs, shrugging without an ounce of apology. "I did do that."

"And you weren't too happy about us dating."

"Could have had something to do with walking into the apartment and finding the two of you on the kitchen counter."

"You didn't tell me you were coming over."

"I didn't think I had to."

"And that's why you knock now." Emma can't help but giggle at the face David pulls, one part disgust and one part affectionate indulgence. It had been a tense afternoon when it had happened, Killian and David arguing in low, vicious tones before David had left with a slamming door, but they'd learned to joke about it.

In fact, there had been an actual argument over whose best man David was going to be.

"Yes, I don't think I'll ever walk into a room where I know the two of you are alone without knocking for the rest of my life." David shakes his head, but he's smiling as he holds out a hand to her. "I think it's time we got you married."

David performs the ceremony after walking her down the aisle, and it's not conventional, but Emma doesn't care, and as Killian's eyes shine with tears in the light reflecting off the sea, she knows he doesn't either. And when his voice catches on his vows, she squeezes his hand and mouths _I love you_.

Then it's her turn, and in spite of the crowd of family and friends, the steady crash of the waves and the call of the gulls, Killian is the only thing she can see in front of her.

"The first time we met, I told you I wanted to know what I was walking into," she says, struggling to keep her voice even. "But when I'm with you, I don't need to know, because whatever it is, you'll be there to keep me safe." It's hard to keep going, to remember what she wanted to say to him, but he returns the silent _I love you_ when her voice shakes, and in some distant corner of her mind she's grateful for waterproof mascara.

Killian reminds her later that the first they met, she rolled her eyes and told him he was insane. "You are," she insists, glancing around the gathering of their friends as they dance under strings of fairy lights. "You married me," she adds with a laugh at his baffled expression, her fingers curling into the short hair at the nape of his neck to draw him closer for a kiss. "Completely crazy."

"Aye, well, I did promise in sickness and in health." He kisses her before she can protest, and Emma loses herself to it, the kiss and the man, and the happily ever after she just might have started to believe in.


End file.
